Free Carolina Heart by Virginia Kantra Page B

lap. He felt so good, so solid against her, his body supporting her weight, his arms holding her secure. Maybe it was only temporary, but it was very sweet.
    “Still friends?” she asked finally in a small voice.
    His arms tightened around her. “If that’s what you want.”
    “I want you,” she confessed. “I want this. But I’ve got to put my kids first. I haven’t been able to give them everything they need. But I can show them every day that they matter more than anything to me. They’ll have that.”
    “Then that’s everything.”
    “You must have really good parents.”
    He was silent.
    Uh-oh
. She raised her head, seeking his expression in the dark. “Or really bad ones,” she guessed.
    His throat moved as he swallowed. “This isn’t about me. I’ll take whatever is right for the kids. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
    She snuggled closer, grateful for his understanding. But the pinch at her heart would not go away. Max was such a good guy. He deserved more. Better.
Who put him first?
she wondered.
    “I’m sorry,” she mumbled into his chest.
    He kissed the top of her head. “I’m not sorry. About anything. As long as I get to see you sometimes, that’s enough for me.”

S EVEN

    CYNTHIE HELD ON to the refrigerator door for support.
Get a grip,
she ordered herself. This morning, she’d had some dream of impressing Max with a real family dinner, a home-cooked meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes and Mama’s biscuits. It made her happy to feed him something besides takeout. The man didn’t eat properly. But now . . .
    She stared sightlessly at the refrigerator’s contents. All she could see was the image of Dr. Rick Rice’s hand on her breast. A light touch, over her blouse, as Cynthie sat beside him this afternoon observing a procedure on a sedated patient. Hardly a grope at all.
    But the memory of his splayed fingers crawled like a spider across her mind.
    “Are you okay, Mom?” Hannah asked.
    Her pulse hammered. She felt sick. Powerless. If some guy had tried anything at the bar, she would have known what to expect. How to react. Her turf, her terms. But she hadn’t been braced to defend herself against her mentor. Dr. Rice had said, with a white, perfect smile that did not mask his lack of real apology, that he’d only been reaching for the instrument tray. It was possible, Cynthie supposed, that her boob got in his way. Anything was possible.
    Including that she could jeopardize her job-shadowing experience by calling the oral surgeon a lying sack of shit.
    “Mom?”
    Cynthie shut the fridge without taking anything out. “I’m fine, honey.”
    Madison wandered into the kitchen. “What’s that smell?”
    Crap.
The biscuits were burning. Cynthie whirled back to the oven and yanked open the door, reaching for a pot holder with her other hand.
    “What time is Max coming over?” Hannah asked.
    Cynthie threw a distracted glance at the clock, dumping the biscuits onto the counter. “Soon.”
    The bottoms were only a little charred. Maybe she could salvage dinner after all. She turned to the chicken sizzling in the skillet. She really wanted to make this work. Not just the meal. Everything. When she was with Max, she could almost believe they could be more than friends. When he touched her, her hair or her arm, or smiled at her a certain way, her insides tingled. Her world glowed. She felt . . . not confident. But hopeful.
    “I thought he was supposed to be here at six,” Madison said.
    So she had noticed he was late. Was that a good sign? Was her daughter actually looking forward to seeing him again?
    “He must have gotten held up,” Cynthie said.
    Madison shrugged. “That’s okay. I just wondered what he thought of the picture I sent him.”
    Cynthie blinked, tongs suspended. “You sent Max a picture?”
    “Of Taylor’s dog. I sent it from Taylor’s phone.”
    “How did you get his number?”
    “Your contacts list. Max says I have a good eye for